Never Let Me Go
by JALU
Summary: Alternative Ending. The life and times of Chris Keller and Tobias Beecher, two men doomed to start and end their relationship based on brutality - and love.


**Author's Notes: **AU alternative ending, set directly after Chris Keller's death. Em City is still functional. Quotes and scenes taken directly from the show itself can be found in italics. Stream of consciousness style.  
**Rating: **M for language and themes. Major references to suicide and alcoholism.

**Disclaimer: **Oz belongs to its rightful owners. No copyright intended.

* * *

_And it's over,  
And I'm going under,  
But I'm not giving up!  
I'm just giving in.  
_- Never Let Me Go by Florence + The Machine

_Tobias Beecher met Chris Keller in the year nineteen-ninety-eight, and his life was never the same. Prison itself would have possessed the ability to change Beecher's entire outlook on the world, but it was Keller who had taught him how to seek these changes. It was all Keller._

_It had been strange, it had been slow, and it had been rooted in a peculiar mixture of violence and the longing for comfort. Indeed, Beecher had originally believed the situation was merely a symptom of being institutionalised – lack of women and all that shit – but Beecher was once a lawyer. He was trained to make observations in an unbiased, analytical manner. By using that method, Beecher had been able to draw his conclusion on Chris Keller._

_Toby loved him._

******NEVER LET ME GO**

He remembered the fall. He remembered the last words.

"_I love you, Toby."_

He remembered how terrified he felt. But his memories were fogged. They were viewed as though hidden behind frosted glass – or maybe through the sight of a third party. His shout had been clogged, belated in reaching his ears. All Beecher could recall in vivid detail was the last look of Chris Keller's eyes; locked and forever staring upwards. Upwards at Beecher. Judging him. _Hating him_.

...**  
**

He lay in his cell that night and tried to cease thinking. It didn't work. Trying not to think just resulted in a swirling of questions and images in his mind. So Beecher kept trying not to think, but instead did think, and became consumed with flashes of memories.

All of which were bad.

Memories of broken bones (_repaired souls_), pain (_tenderness_), brutality (_care_), and hatred (_love_). Beecher felt like throwing his guts up. Continually lingering was the image of Keller's blue eyes made of glass. Then...another image shot through Beecher's mind. So sudden, unexpected, that he bolted upright. It was yet another memory, but not one built on violence and cruelty. This memory was built on everything but.

_There are no flashlights, no officers, and no pissed-off Aryans. It's as peaceful as a prison can ever expect to be._

_Chris places his hand on my hip, and all I can do is look up at him. I wonder why I bother going back to him no matter what. He can crush me, snap me, break me, and back I always go..._

_Chris leans in and our mouths catch. Once again, all is forgotten, all is forgiven, and all that matters at this moment is the two of us, pulling closer...locked together...never going to let go._

Then he was back. And Keller had let go.

...

Life went on in a similar manner – questions, answers, interrogation, sleeping, eating, walking – for the next few days with a minimal amount of effort on Beecher's part. His mind stayed occupied elsewhere.

The more the police blamed him, the more Beecher questioned his responsibility in the death (_murder, murder, murder_) of Chris Keller. The terrifying thought led him to seek help from a person he wouldn't pass judgement. Or so he hoped, at least.

"Do you blame yourself, Tobias?"

Beecher looked away. Chris' dead eyes followed. He considered Sister Pete's question for what could have been hours as easily as it could have been seconds. She was patient and didn't press the issue, but despite her lack of prodding – or maybe because of it – Tobias let out a deep sigh and turned back to face her.

"Yes."

...

Another interrogation room. Hadn't he already explained it all (_He fell! That's all there is to it! Do you want me to lie? Fuck!)?_ Apparently that wasn't the answer they wanted, and thus he was subjected to more questions, and provided more answers (_Yes. No. What the fuck do you think, motherfucker?_). They soon became nothing more than a 'yes, no' robotic reaction that didn't need Beecher's conscious thought. His mind found itself busy elsewhere.

_Chris can't hug me back. Chris can't move his hands. Chris can't come back to our cell. Chris can't fuck me to make everything better. Chris can't do anything I want (_need_) him to._

_I try and refuse to think about when we may see each other next (_electric chair seems likely_). Sister Pete tells me it's time to go, but I can't. I can't leave Chris._

_Chris himself decides on our next course of action. He steps into a kiss, and though I know he cannot move, I try to make up for it by pulling him closer. Our mouths lock, and a mixture of bitter fear, hatred, and love combines. Sister Pete clears her throat, and Chris pulls away._

_Maybe forever._

...

He awoke in a sweat that night – thought he'd heard Chris' voice calling him. He couldn't see Keller, and considered getting out of bed to check the bottom bunk, see if everything was alright. Then he remembered.

It was dark, it was lonely, and it was all Beecher needed to break down. He buried his face in his hands while sobs ripped through his body. It didn't help – crying only resurfaced more memories. He couldn't escape. He couldn't run. When he had broken down in the past, Chris was always there –

_Chris holds my shoulders while the rest of my body shakes._

"_I'm all alone."_

"_No, no, you're not." I feel Chris smooth my hair and drop a kiss to the nape of my neck. "It's alright."_

– he was irritating as fuck sometimes; he only seemed able to offer comfort in the form of sexual contact –

_Chris slides his hand down my arm, and it takes me a while to register his intent with a mind still fogged by pain. Then his hand reaches lower, my blood runs hot-cold, and I jolt away._

– but he had been there nonetheless. Only now he wasn't, and he wouldn't be returning. The revelation finally hit Beecher with full force, and everything hurt. It hurt more than the snapping of his bones, it hurt more than his wife's suicide, and it even hurt a hell of a lot more than anything Schillinger had ever done...it hurt more than he believed anything possibly could.

He felt as though all that was left within him were his heart and lungs – all that was happening within him was the pumping of blood and the breathing of air. He hated it. He hated the knowledge of it happening. He hated the _feeling _that coursed through him. Most of all he hated being in Em (_fucking_) City.

...

Beecher no longer wanted to waste time. In prison you appeared trapped – you believed there was no escape. That was not true. Not when you knew how and where to look. Thanks to Keller, Beecher knew it all.

Twenty bucks was all it took – not a fuck, not tits, just twenty bucks in cash. That was surprising to Beecher – with money so rarely having a need in Em City – but perhaps the inmates had gained respect for Beecher after he had killed the indestructible (_"Hey, man, they stab me, they shoot me, I ain't going down."_) Keller. The reason didn't really matter. He wouldn't be around long enough for it to matter.

...

"LIGHTS OUT."

A literal meaning. Beecher settled back onto the bed and watched every light switch off. It didn't take long for the whole block to become dark, save for a few emergency lights and flashlight beams, and he waited.

Waited.

Waited why? He didn't know. Waited for what? Ditto on the knowledge front. All he knew was that his heart and mind were waiting for a sign of what was to come. What he needed to reach. What he needed to do. Whatever he needed to fucking know to make sense of the world. A world that was fast becoming dark.

Em City finally did it. The yellow brick road was finally linoleum and the colour of puke, the wizard really _was _the little man from behind the screen (_but this one had no fucking powers – did nothing fucking great_), and the four adventurers were finally nothing more than a murderer, a rapist, a fraudster, and a robber. Well _**fucking **_done, Oz. You rehabilitated us all. You did it all. You fucking _**WON!**_

His mind was flown back into another time, a time that had seemed harsh during, but was now sweet. A time that was fitting.

"_I was in Hell, and I felt everything. I felt the pain and I felt the fire for all of eternity." Keller's shaking, crying; for once he can't seem to hold it together. It's frightening, but I attempt to make up for it – I attempt to keep myself calm for him._

"_Hey, hey. It's gonna be okay." I don't know how well it works._

"_No, it's not gonna be okay. Don't fucking lie to me..."_

He frowned. Keller had said the last line, so why did it sound so like...Beecher's own voice?

_That was the sign._

Why? He had no idea, but it was the sign – he _felt _it. Beecher jumped from his bunk, ruffled under the bottom mattress, and emerged with what it was he wanted.

Nobody looked. Nobody cared. Everybody had stopped worrying about the emotionally inept man he had now become. He was just a person stuck on grief. Grieving for a man who meant nothing to them: Keller was a psychopath; Keller was bringing him down; Keller was pointless; Keller was hateful; Keller was scum; Keller was worthless; Keller was _bad_.

Beecher never agreed with any of that. Not for a single second. No matter what Keller could throw at him, no matter what Keller could say to him, no matter what – he still accepted him. Maybe it was fucked up, but it was what it was.

Until Keller got the fuck outta dodge, that was.

So he raised the glass to his lips and decided there was no turning back. He was still there with Keller, still back in the past. For a split-second he was back even before Oz was a known thing – before he got into that car drunk. Before the mistake. Back with his babies and his wife.

Back in his happy family unit, and nothing could possibly go wrong.

Then Oz happened. His mind hardly bothered with the first few months there...Shillinger went through his mind for a second (_the image of the knife, the blood, oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit._)...then straight to Chris.

And he realised that maybe...just maybe...Oz wasn't such a bad card dealt by the hateful fate after all. Maybe it was just what Tobias had needed to figure himself out – for better or for worse.

The liquid burnt his throat, but everything about Keller became more and more alive as the seconds passed; he kept drinking, and Keller kept living.

"_Don't let go."_

The words somehow seemed louder than they were that night, as strange as it was. But it didn't matter; he had let go that night, and he would let go on this night.

Foggy and clear; both existed in equal quantities as Beecher stumbled onto the bed. His eyes began to close, and he didn't have the strength to force them open.

"_You really think we're going to get into heaven?" I smiled at the absurdity of his thought pattern._

He found the strength to smile at the memory.

"_Aw, you and me together? God doesn't have the balls to keep us out."_

He hoped the words would prove true. Chris Keller stayed in his mind as Tobias Beecher's strength finally evaporated, and he closed his eyes one last time.


End file.
